


Rooked On You

by Meghan Callahan (cuddlybunny)



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alcohol, Breaking Space-Time, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Gangs, M/M, Multi, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), pit fighting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-21 05:04:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6039295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddlybunny/pseuds/Meghan%20Callahan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kestrel Miyamoto is fine living in hiding from Abstergo and her family; one reunion later and she finds herself in Victorian London, in the Blighters' Fighting Pits as Bruiser.  Not that she cares, she'll fight for anyone as long as she can have her weed and fight the biggest guys on the other side.  Jacob wants Bruiser on his side, for their info as a Bow Street Runner and their surprising physical strength.  He likes Kes' frank manner and sense of humor, maybe more than he should, and he'll do what he can to get what she needs, if he can.  Pearl Attaway is attracted to both of them, their irreverence for authority and eagerness to get the job done, no matter what happens to get in the way.</p>
<p>What could possibly go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hate Me

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: My first real fanfic, my first good long one. It’s not finished, but, I’ll be updating as I finish more of it. Thanks much to the Wye Squad: thedi_WRECK_tor, RozUnderPressure, RebornFromSeas, niklitera, PropaganJack, and queertitan. Thanks a bunch to my buddies Tara and Susy for encouraging me to get into AC: S in the first place and helping me with writing advice. And now, with no further ado…here we go.

_I need a place to hide out for a while. I know you're still mad at me, but I don't have anywhere else to go. Text back when you can._

Kestrel looked at the almost offensive words on the screen, sighing. “Shit,” She muttered, putting the joint into her mouth and lighting it. She inhaled, held, then let out the smoke, feeling the familiar haze of cotton and calm spread over her brain. She looked at her phone again.

The words looked almost accusing. _I know you're still mad at me. Text back when you can._ Under the little “unknown number” name that she wished really was unknown.

“Shit,” She muttered again, taking another hit. She was not nearly high enough for this shit, not yet. She looked up at the sound of the door opening, then slamming shut. “Oh, hey,” She greeted, “Sorry, I didn't get a chance to text back.”

The girl leaned against the door was an exact copy of the one sitting on the overstuffed, worn black couch. Both had diamond-shaped faces; pointed chins, pronounced cheekbones, cheeks without much fat on them. Both had surprisingly wide gray eyes for their heritage, though Kes noted that Jay had gotten contacts to change them to more blue-green. They had the same thick, fluffy brown hair; Kes' was worn short, around her chin, so she didn't have to fight with it in the morning. Jay wore hers short, in a cute bob that didn't look as if she had chopped it to pieces with a rusty leatherman. They both had the soft, pink, rosebud mouth. Both stood only 4'9”, androgynous, skinny as a rail and pale, without so much of a freckle to make them look less like ghosts.

Jay wore a dark blue tank top and a pair of cute black jean shorts, a pair of socks and converses on her feet. The real Converses, too, with the high tops and the stars. She looked toward the window, then back at her twin. “It's been two days, Kes. You didn't have time or you just didn't want to?” Her voice was as accusing as her text had been, “I mean, it was the least you could do, give me a place to hide out.”

Kes shrugged, tapping some of the ash off of her joint. “Yeah, well, I'm real good with the least I can do,” She gave a little intoxicated giggle. She looked as if she hadn't thought at all about what she was going to wear today, and she had pretty much just grabbed what was clean. Which happened to be a black T-shirt, a pair of ratty old boot cut jeans, white sneakers with the soles held on with super glue, and her oversized black hoodie. Plain in front, but, with a huge pot leaf on the back. “What's Abstergo following you for?”

Her twin huffed, flinging graceful hands in the air, “I don't know? They finally want their property back? After the whole Miles thing, obviously, they want that gotten rid of. And who's the only one who can actually do that?”

“Three time Academy Award-winner Meryl Streep! She can do anything.” Kes couldn't help but laugh at Jay's face, “You sure it's Abstergo?”

“Do you know of another company that's going to chase down a girl with no family, no friends, and no one to lean on in order to rewrite time and space?” Jay asked. The 'no family' bit stung a little, but, hey, the stoner had dug that grave herself. She knew she had, too, “This isn't something to laugh about,” Jay added, “They shot two people trying to tranq me.”

“Yikes.” Kes took another hit, sitting back on her couch, “Well, I don't have a lot for you to stay on. You could take the bed.” She hardly used the bed anyway. It was probably the only clean spot in the house besides the jewelry-making studio out back. And that was the one place she could probably escape to.

Jay eyed the joint in the other girl's mouth distastefully. “You said you quit.”

“I quit before I moved out.”

“Whatever. I'm going to get some sleep.” Jay went to the back bedroom, dodging dirty clothes, old pizza boxes, a couple bags of trash, “You're disgusting, by the way, you know that?”

Kes giggled, hitting the joint again, “Yeah,” She called, holding her breath in, “Yeah, I know. Sleep well, Jay.” There was a banging at the locked door, and she breathed out, laying the joint aside. “Shit,” She sighed, opening the door to see a couple men in suits in front of her, “'sup?” She greeted.

“Miss Miyamoto,” The taller of the two greeted, “Nice to finally meet you. Have you seen your sister?”

“Nope. Jay-Jay doesn't exactly like me, so, we don't hang too often. Why?” She tossed some of her hair out of her face, “You guys don't look like cops.”

“Miss Jay Miyamoto has some property belonging to Abstergo Industries.” The second stated, “We feel she might have come here.”

“You're idiots.” Kes grinned, a little dumbly, she was sure, “Thanks for stopping by.” She started to close the door on them, the first blocking it with his body, “...the hell?”

The man smirked, “We were told you have some Abstergo property yourself. Or, rather, you are.”

The high was broken by a cold feeling in her stomach. “Don't,” She said softly, “Trust me, you don't want me, I'm a failure. Says so, right in my file.” The man reached for her. Her old training kicked in, and she grabbed his wrist, twisting and shoving, slamming the door shut.

The guns blew the doors open. She ducked behind the couch, grabbing her bag of weed as they came in. “Fuck,” She muttered, “Fuck-fuck-fuck.” This was why she didn't mess around with her family. Stuff always went to shit. She slid her bag and cell into her hoodie pockets. She looked at her couch, whimpering a moment before digging her hands into the bottom.

Once she started, it wasn't a task to pick up the saggy old couch, lifting it over her head and throwing it, knocking most of the Abstergo gunmen over and blocking the door. Oh, fuck, she was blocking the door. She heard the bedroom door creak open just a little. “Jay, stay inside, unless you wanna get perforated,” She said, giggling a little at the word, “Perforated.” She winked, “See, I know big words, too.”

“Kes, not the time!” Jay shrieked, “Is there a back door?”

“Yep.” Kes jerked her thumb, rushing toward the couch and hopping it, clotheslining two of the Abstergo dudes, using their bodies with their nice bulletproof vests as meat shields as she waded into combat. Her body moved a little slower than it had as a kid, but, that was the weed, keeping her even-keeled. Keeping her from actually killing them. She knocked down the last as the police vans rolled up. She sighed, putting her hands up. “These men came to attempt a kidnapping,” She pointed out, blinking as she noticed that none of the cops were the ones she knew. And she knew them all. Living in the bad part of town would do that.

They also came out heavily armed. Kes looked at the guns. Then, at their mostly-covered faces, each wearing full fucking riot gear. Then, back at the guns.

She turned and legged it. No way in hell she was getting herself killed over this Abstergo bullshit. She skidded to a halt, falling on her face as her soles ripped off the bottoms of her shoes. Again. “Aww, maaaan,” She whined, “And these were my good shoes.” She looked up at Jay, who stood with her back to the wall, “You okay?” She asked.

“Fine, no thanks to you.” Jay mumbled, looking up the back wall, “You didn't tell me it was a dead end!”

“Oh, yeah. Forgot. Sorry.” Kes shrugged, turning as she heard guns cocking. One of them fired early. She moved into the way, feeling the burning pain of the bullet hitting her just between her hip and ribs; never hit any of the organs, at least. “Ow. That was rude.” She pointed out, looking at the cop in question. Young guy with shaky hands. A second fired, catching Jay in the shoulder.

Jay held the wound, looking at the blood coming through her fingers. Her eyes were a little wide. Kes looked at her in surprise.

“Y'okay, Jay?” She asked, ignoring her own bleeding, walking to her sister, “Lemme see...” She winced at the wound, “Well, it'll scar, but you'll be okay.” She looked at Jay, “Hey, you'll be okay, dingus.” Her sister's face was paler than usual, “Oh, yeah, I keep forgetting you didn't get shot at. Hey, it's superficial. Just a meat wound. You're gonna be fiiiine.” She tilted her head, “Jay?”

Jay's expression, shocked and agonized, did not change as the cops parted, another man in a suit that Kes didn't recognize stepping out.

“Ah, the famous Miyamoto twins,” He said, in an oily voice that reminded Kes a bit of their uncle. Obviously, her sister heard the resemblance as well, “We welcome you back to the Abstergo family.”

“I'm not going back,” Jay said in a shaky voice, barely looking up, “I'm not going back, not ever. Not ever.”

“Now, now. Don't be hasty. I'm sure we can work something out.” The way he looked her over reminded Kes of their uncle, too. “You and the little tomboy will have free reign, so long as you don't try to run off again. Three square meals a day.”

“No.” Jay said, “No, I'm not going back.”

They both looked at Kes. Kestrel held up her hands in front of her, as if guns were on her again. “Hey, I just work here,” She said, in reference to the house, “Y'all can have your hissy fit away from my place if you want to have one.”

“Can't bring back the super-strong girl if I don't have the time-bender.” The man stated, “It's either both of you or neither.”

Jay frowned, clenched her fist. Kes smelled the familiar scent – ozone meets clean laundry, something she hadn't smelled in a while. The man before them narrowed his eyes.

“Very well,” He said.

“Woah, woah, hold up!” Kes held her hands up higher, “At least let me get the fuck out of the-”

“Fire.”

“-way?”

It was suddenly very loud. Gunshots and the tear in the space-time continuum rang out at once. Kes covered both her ears, felt the bullets flying past her, felt herself grabbed and jerked. Her feet left the ground, one of her shoes coming off as well. She opened her eyes, saw everything blur, but saw one sight in particular she hoped she wouldn't.  
Jay, body bowed back like a girl possessed, a graceful arc of blood shooting from her body. Her eyes gone white with power, glowing, hands reaching for nothing. Around her, the burning bodies of soldiers and the Abstergo spokesperson.

They fell, and hard, on cobbled streets. At first, Kes thought it was the same place, but for the sounds of carriages going past. She landed hard on her knees, coughing, patting herself down. Nothing out of place, but her blood still pouring out of the hole in her side. Nothing wrong. Even her weed was in place. She looked around, eyes adjusting to the dim light, before she saw it.

Her twin, lying, bonelessly on the ground. “Oh shit,” She intoned quietly, “Oh shit, oh fuck, oh shitfuck, no-no-no...” She scrambled on hands and knees to her twin, the tiny girl she had been born beside. “Jay? Jay, baby, look at me.” She put her hand to her twin's cheek, “Jay? Come on, baby, open your eyes.” She shook her a little, Jay's body flopping lifelessly. “No, you're not allowed to die!”

Despite herself, there were some tears in her eyes. She remembered the smile her sister used to have, the way Jay would grab her hand and pull her to the playground to play. The way Jay clung to her when the scientists would come, and would hug her close afterward, when they were all free.

“Shit, this is all my fault,” Kes whimpered, hugging Jay tightly, “You have to wake up, Jay. You have to.” She sniffed, he tears starting to spill out, “I c-can't lose you, Jay-Jay. You're my sister, you're all I've got...” Jay never moved. “This is my fault,” She repeated in a teary voice, “This is all my fucking fault. I shoulda taken the bullet. I'm sorry, I'm so-so sorry.” She rocked just a little back and forth, apologizing over and over again to the dead body. She rubbed her eyes, laying her sister down. She closed the wide-open mouth, folded her twin's hands on her belly, smoothed her hair down. She did her best to dry the blood off of her face, sniffing again and wiping her nose on the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

Her side ached when she stood up, the wound more and more angry at her now. She looked toward the opening of the alley.

“Oy, you there, boy,” A tall man in a white shirt and a red waistcoat demanded, “What're you doin' down here? Who's colors you wear?”

Kes winced a little, wiping her still streaming eyes, “You know, I'm not in the mood, mister.”

“A bloody Yank, 'e is, Boss.”

She didn't correct him. Didn't have the want or energy to. “I really just want to go see a doc for my side, a dealer for my weed, and go home, okay?” She added, barely audible.

“I'll have no Yanks in my territory, boy. You'll get a swift kick in the arse and be glad if that's all you get. Boys, let's show 'im what the Blighters do to outsiders.”

They moved in fast, and the alley was wide enough that they didn't need to come in one at a time, at least. Kes raised her eyes to the first as he came in, in time to catch the punch to the face. She staggered as he pulled back for a second.

“Okay,” She shrugged, “You asked for it.” She settled her weight into her feet, blocking the punch as it came at her, before punching the man so hard she nearly felt his spine on her knuckles. He coughed blood, flying past his boss into the street. She picked up the biggest, one hand on his pants and one on his collar, threw him into the back wall. She kicked out the third one's legs, hearing the bone crack. She slammed her foot on his chest, making a small man-shaped crater in the dirty alley.

She was panting as she turned, more of them coming toward her. She winced, finally touching her side, “Today is just not my day,” She mumbled. This struck her as enormously funny, and she started laughing, almost uncontrollably. She saw them take a half-step back, “Well, come on, guys. Let's dance.”


	2. Long Way Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This one was the hardest to title, but the easiest to write. I happen to enjoy letting Jacob get his ass handed to him, I dunno why. Shout out to the Wye squad: fandom Venus RozUnderPressure, my dick-punching twin thedi_WRECK_tor, the perfect beta RebornFromSeas, Actual Hamilton niklitera, Actual Author queertitan, and ever-supportive PropaganJack. Loads of love to Susy and Tara for helping me write Jacob and Evie right. Enjoy!

“Jacob, remind me again why it is you need a pit fighter? We have plenty, when you don't insist we jump in ourselves.”

“Do we have one that can lift five times his own weight above his head?”

Evie Frye was silent, watching her too-eager brother's eyes, before rolling her own. “I think that's a load of bollocks, and so do you. You can't even imagine a Piece of Eden existing, why some kind of mutant who can-”

“Now, Evie. That's not very nice,” Jacob teased, “We wouldn't want to offend him.” The two moved through the rather substantial crowd easily, almost too easily, “There he is. The one in the black waistcoat.” He pointed.

Evie raised an eyebrow. Jacob, however, was looking at the little prizefighter. Sure, he was small. Barely came to the chest of the man Jacob had set him up against; skinny as a rail, too, with messy brown hair and big, somewhat glazed grey eyes. But, he'd heard stories. Stories of what a brute the little man was; that he would fight any man, for any price. The biggest opponents would be enough for him to jump ship, and he could think of no one bigger than the Blighters.

The young man rolled his neck, sitting up from the barrel he had been sitting on. Thresher was a huge man, six six and roped with muscle. Russian and brutal, looking with cold eyes down at the tiny Japanese as if the smaller man was a mere bug that needed crushed. The brunette hopped, raising his fists a minute and then snickering. “Jeez,” The Japanese Yank shook his head, “You could've gotten me a bigger one.”

“Now I see why you like him,” Evie sneered, “He's a smaller version of you.”

“Hey!”

The Bruiser tightened the wraps around his hands a moment, as the bell was rung. Thresher brought his fist around, and the man ducked out of the way, fast and small. He slammed his fist in Thresher's side, making the man hiss and flinch. As soon as he flinched down, Bruiser brought his fist around to the man's jaw.

Thresher batted the brunette aside with a backhand, reeling already. Bruiser spit blood from his lip, grinning like an idiot. Jacob grinned a little as well. Bruiser ducked under the grab Thresher tried to catch him in, punching the Russian so hard in the stomach the massive man was actually lifted off of his feet.

Evie's eyes widened and her jaw dropped.

“See what I mean?” Jacob asked.

While Thresher was bent over, Bruiser brought the back of his knuckles back across, making the Russian's face turn with the blow.

“Come on, Comrade,” Bruiser snickered, “You gonna let a little brat like me take you out?” He didn't even seem to care when his question was met with fists, seeming to take them instead of words, and take them well. For a moment, he stumbled back, getting distance between them. Then, he looked up, face dripping blood, and grinned even wider.

He ran at Thresher, skidding to a halt under him and grabbing him by his belt, lifting him, one-handed, off of the ground.

Evie's eyes were like saucers, and Jacob's as well, as Bruiser jumped, slamming Thresher face-first into the ground. Instant knockout. Bruiser released him, putting one foot on Thresher's back and raising both hands in the air with a savage victory cry, one echoed by the crowd, who began throwing notes as if they were nothing more than paper.

“The winner is the Blighters' Bruiser!” The announcer held up one arm, “Once again, he has defeated every Rook he has come across! Is there no one who can stop his conquest?”  
Slowly, the Frye brother turned to his sister.

“Jacob. No.”

“How else am I going to see for myself? Thresher could have been bought off. And besides, we need his respect, and the word is that he respects no one outside of the ring. Hold my coat, and my shirt.”

Evie rolled her eyes, “He's a pit fighter, Jacob, we don't need the money that badly.”

“Come on, Evie. He's a good pit fighter. Besides, he's also a Runner. We need the information, don't we?”

She sputtered, then rolled her eyes, “Try not to end up like him,” She pointed at where they were now dragging Thresher out.

“I would never.” He jumped into the ring himself, the room going quiet, “What? I'm not allowed to avenge the honor of my own gang?” He joked.

Bruiser looked a little surprised, then snickered. “Aw. That's adorable.” He said, “You sure you wanna do this? I mean, I'm not exactly kittens and feathers, Boss-Man.”

“I'm not looking for kittens and feathers. I'll make you a bet. I win, you come work for me. I lose, you stay with the Blighters, and you can keep picking off my little ones until you get bored. Deal?”

Bruiser seemed to be thinking about it, before nodding. “Deal,” He said, reaching out and shaking Jacob's hand.

Evie merely sighed, rubbing her temple. Wonderful. Now there was going to be two of them.

The bell rang, and the little Bruiser was already at him. Jacob jerked back, barely getting his fists up before the assault. He took a step back, waiting, seeing the opening. Bruiser had a bad habit of leaving himself open. As soon as he saw the face open, the took it.

Blood spattered the ground, and he followed his left up with his right, pushing him back against one wall, Bruiser not even blocking. Maybe he wasn't as good as he looked. Maybe he had paid off Thresher.

Bruiser came back from nowhere, his knee coming up into Jacob's gut, knocking the wind out of him, his elbow striking just before the ear. Jacob heard ringing for just a moment, saw and blocked the foot coming up to hit him in the ribs. “Nice try,” He smirked, “Now, where are you going?”

“Here.” The grubby other foot hit him in the chest hard enough that he released and let go. Bruiser's hands hit the ground before he sprung to his feet. “Stay down, Boss-Man.” He held his fists ready, despite his mouth and nose bleeding, hair stringy in his face. Jacob admired the little rivulets of blood and sweat dripping down the now obvious – and flexed – arm muscles, dripping down his chest.

“What fun would-” Jacob jumped to his feet much the same way, “That be?”

Bruiser snickered, “I like you. I'm gonna turn you into goo, but, I like you.” He shifted on his feet, ducking out of the way as Jacob punched, catching his arm and laying into the Frye brother's unguarded side.

Jacob grunted, yanking his arm. He felt something pull, pop, before he saw the brunette's feet move the smallest bit. Boy was heavier than he looked. He brought his fist around, cracking Bruiser in the temple, making him loosen and release the arm. Jacob staggered back but a moment, shaking his head in time to see Bruiser come flying at him.

The fist met his cheek and for a moment, he saw white. Then, the world slowly came back. Bruiser stood with his arms in the air, in the ring that someone had obviously taken him out of. He looked up at Evie with a small grin.

“I hope you're proud of yourself.” She pointed out, rolling her eyes with a huff, “You just cost us a pit fighter, and your dignity. What were you thinking?”

“I was...thinking that he hits like a bloody freight train...” He started to sit up, wincing and lying back down.

“Wonderful.” Evie carefully hoisted him to his feet, “Come on, you big idiot.”

Jacob hissed, “Careful with the injured, there,” He sighed, “I'm glad you never decided to become a doctor. You'd kill as many patients as you would cure.”

“Shut up. You're the one who decided to jump in with a bloody superhuman and match blows.”

“I had to make sure he was a legitimate asset.”

“You had to show off.”

“Yo,” They both turned, seeing Bruiser behind them, a ratty, bloody old towel over his shoulders. He had cleaned the worst of the blood off of his face, and Jacob tilted his head a little. He had a mouth that seemed far too soft for a man's; reminded him a little of Ned's, actually. Not to mention the thinner, curved brows, the shape of those cheekbones. The softness of his jaw.

“Congratulations on your victory,” His sister was saying, “But, we should be going.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” The man shrugged, “I was just wondering if we could talk about that job offer over a drink. Your brother's a pretty good fighter. I think he might have chipped my teeth or something. Rattled them, at least.” He held a hand out for Jacob to shake, which he did, carefully.

“As much as I'm sure we'd like to-”

Jacob gave her a look, “We'd love to.” He said, “I need something to soothe this sudden ache you put into my...everything, actually.”

She curled her lip in slight disgust. “Jacob, we have things to do.”

“I can bring him home,” Bruiser offered, “I promise, I'm not in deep with the Blighters. I don't give a fuck who they want dead, as long as I get my supplies and I get to beat up on lots of guys bigger than me. By the way, Thresher? Excellent choice. If he was a little faster, he probably could've pinned me.” He winked.

That was adorable.

“I'll be all right, Evie. You go and snog Henry or whatever it is you do when I'm not about.” Jacob slowly stood straight, wincing. Bruiser winced in sympathy.

“Fine. If you insist on being an idiot, I won't stop you,” She shoved his clothes at him, “I have something important to find.”

“Hopefully, if it's in this Henry guy's pants, you find it before I get him back.” Bruiser added helpfully, letting Jacob dress and then lean on him. He had a surprisingly sturdy, if delicate, little shoulder. Evie gave him a stern look, before shaking her head and walking off.

“I think she likes you.”

-

 

“Hey, Bert,” Kes greeted, “I got another one.” She settled Jacob in the corner, at her table. She kept bringing the Blighters money, and Bertrand agreed to keep giving her drinks on Starrick's dime. The guy was pretty generous. He just wasn't as good at setting up fights against big opponents, just big name ones. They usually didn't hit hard enough, and expected her to lose because they had big names. That was just gross.

She pulled a blunt out of her waistcoat pocket, having put a few in there as soon as she was given the okay to head out. “Shit, I keep forgetting I don't have a lighter on me.” She muttered, patting herself down, starting with her shoulders and working her way down her chest until she got to her pants. No luck. “You wouldn't happen to have a light, would you?” She asked Jacob.

“Unfortunately, no. I don't smoke.”

“That sucks.” She looked at the two big drinks set in front of her, and the set of matches, then at their barmaid. “Thank you, Lizzie. You tell Bert to put an extra nickel in your pay bucket.”

The pretty, shapely blonde giggled. “Only 'cause you said so, KesKes.” She said, winking to Jacob and swishing off. Jacob took the offered mug, taking a small sip of beer.

“KesKes?” He asked, raising an eyebrow, “Is that short for something? Or do I get to call you Mr. Bruiser?”

“Oh, shit, sorry. Kestrel Miyamoto. Pit Fighter. Bow Street Runner. General pain in the ass.” She struck the match, lighting up and taking the hit. It was smooth, clean. Cleaner than she had been used to, previously. Finally, she let out the smoke, “So, about that job offer. Is that still open?”

“Kestrel,” Jacob nodded, “Of course, if you still want it. I just have a couple questions. Obviously, the first one is-”

“Yes, I am actually a girl, no, I don't kill women or anyone under the age of twenty.” She answered quickly. He looked at her a little oddly. “I'm underdeveloped. Mom drank a lot while she was pregnant.”

“That...wasn't what I was going to ask, but good to know. I was going to ask where you learned to fight like that. Not many people your size can take on many of mine without killing themselves.”

She shrugged, chugged down her ale. It hurt, her throat and face sore, but it was a good sore. When she pounded it down, she followed it up with another hit. “Learned on the streets,” She replied, holding in the smoke, very slowly releasing it, “Sad backstory, we can skip that. I'm more than willing to jump ship, there's just the question of my supply lines. I have a route from India down here to England. Three times a month. You get me that, get me the biggest, nastiest guys you can find to fight, and I'm yours.” She tilted her head. He was kinda cute, in a very bruised up kinda way.

“What kind of shipment?” He asked, leaning forward.

“Leaves. For these.” She held up the smoking joint, “This keeps me from possibly going axe-crazy and murdering people.” It was how she'd phrased it to Starrick, when Kaylock had dragged her in to see him. Starrick had no problem with it.

Jacob Frye, on the other hand, frowned. “How much for your special leaves?” He asked. Kes shook her head.

“Don't worry about that. Just worry about getting it here.” With her winnings, she could pay for it herself, she was sure. Then again, trains didn't come cheap. She just didn't have to let him know that. She met his eyes, slowly piecing together that he had very pretty hazel ones, “If it's too much, I can go back to breaking your guys in half.” She took another hit.

He thought about it, then shook his head, “No, tell me where I can get this train to, and I'm sure I can get it out of Starrick's hands. If you leave me an address, I could even drop it at your house, if you so desired.”

“Nah, I'm good.” Kes shrugged, not wanting to admit she basically lived in the arena, unable to afford her own place, even on Starrick's dime. She didn't even mind, “You have a deal, there, Jacob Frye.” She shook his hand, then looked up, seeing Bert watching her. “...aw, shit. This probably wasn't the best place to jump ship.” She sighed, standing up and grabbing Jacob's wrist as the bouncers began to come in, “Yeah, definitely not my smartest move. Not my dumbest, just not my smartest.”

“Did you want some help?” He asked, seeming more amused than irritated by the fact that they had been negotiating in the middle of a Blighter bar.

Kes mentally counted. Then, when that failed, pointed out her finger and counted the bouncers coming toward them. “There's only four of them. I think I'm good.” She sighed, shifting him to the outside seat of the table. “Stay here.” She paused, then giggled, “I mean, you're not going anywhere like that, but, still. Stay.”

Jacob sighed, shaking his head. “Woof woof,” He teased back.

“You, you have a sense of humor. You, I like.” A heavy hand dropped onto her shoulder, and Kes sighed, looking at the big Irishman who had hold of her, “Sean, do I really have to defenestrate you again? We could not.”

“No,” He said, “That was when ya were drunk an' rowdy, li'l Bird. This is different.”

“Okay. I warned you, though.” She grabbed the man's wrist, stepping back and hoisting. Sean went down into the table, breaking it in half. When Nick, a slightly bigger Welshman with impressively black hair and an even more impressive black beard, went for her waist, she punched him in the stomach, jumping back on Sean's prone form, using it to jump up and put both feet in his chest, sending him into another table.

“Slippery little snake!” Thom, the one Frenchman in the entire place, went to lock her arm as she steadied herself, “Hold still!” She spun out of the way, dropping almost to her knees under his arm, before sending her fist like a piston into his groin.

“Hey, Tommy, I didn't know you sung soprano,” She grinned as he cried out in pain, her elbow coming back into the throat of the last poor brat. “Huh,” She said, as he fell backwards, trying to breathe, “New guy.” She looked at Sean, where he started to stand, “All right, you asked for it,” She said, grabbing the man up by the collar and throwing him out the far window. She heard glass break and heard him skid across the ground. “Tommy, I gotta give ya a drink for that song.” She took Jacob's mug, holding open Thom's mouth and pouring the ale into it, before slamming his head on the remains of the table. She looked back at Jacob. “Ready to beat feet out of here?” She asked.

He looked at her, impressed and yet a little terrified. She was starting to get used to that. “I think that would be an excellent idea, KesKes.”

“Hey, only people who kiss me on the mouth can call me KesKes. You can call me Kes. If I can call you Jake.”

That, he looked a little surprised by, as she hauled him into a standing position, letting him lean on her as she started to walk out. “I think I could learn to live with that.”

“Fantyastic,” She replied, stopping at the door as she heard the gun cock. She sighed. “Bert. Man. Don't do that. That would be really dumb – you're not dumb, Bert are...” She sighed as she looked at the blunderbuss in her face, “...yeah, I guess you are. Fuckity fucking fuck.” She calmly grasped the barrel.  
Bert's eyes widened a fraction as she squeezed the flared end of it closed. She then bent what was left back toward him, eyes on the metal as it creaked and screeched until it was pointed back at him.

“Told you.” She pointed out, grinning at him brightly, “Also, extra nickel in Lizzie's pay bucket this week.” She made a motion like tipping an invisible hat, before walking out with the assassin.

“How-”

“Black magic and goat sacrifice.” Kes looked at Jacob, at how wide and surprised his face looked, “It's part of that sad backstory we're not talking about.” She shrugged.

“I find myself curious, but, I think I'll let it be for now. That was perhaps the shortest and yet most satisfying barfight I have ever witnessed, yet not been part of. The bollocks-bashing was a nice touch.”

“Hey-hey-hey. That was a _dick-punching_ , not a bol- whatever the hell that was you just said, you British weirdo.”

“I just watched you bend a man's gun almost into a loop-de-loop, and I am the weirdo.”

“Uh, yeah. You talk funny.”

Jacob actually laughed at her, “Considering you're one of two Americans I know in London, you are technically the one who talks funny.”


	3. Stressed Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t mean to bring on the feels so early, but it happened and I’m not sorry. Shout out to the Wye squad: fandom Venus RozUnderPressure, my dick-punching twin thedi_WRECK_tor, the perfect beta RebornFromSeas (who helped me come up with how they move her onto the train!), Actual Hamilton niklitera, Actual Author queertitan, and ever-supportive PropaganJack. Loads of love to Susy and Tara. Enjoy!

“You live on a train…?” Kes looked at the massive red engine, “Wait. Isn't this Kaylo Ren's old engine?” She tilted her head to one side.  
Jacob raised an eyebrow at the strange name, “Who?”

“Kaylock. Big guy. Used to have that hook launcher attached to his super meaty wrist. Not that I mind, I mean, guy has to have some meat on his bones, but, there is a limit, you know?”

She talked like a labyrinth, meandering from subject to subject as if it were lines in a maze, “Right, yes, this did used to be Kaylock's train. What did you call him?”

“Not important. Does this still have his old bar car?” At his raised eyebrow, she added, “It has sentimental value. That's where he first propositioned me to be his pit fighter.” She sighed, “Ah, memories.”

The thought of the gang leader putting his hands on the pixie-like girl under his arm in one way or another made him feel almost sick to his stomach. “Of course. Why would we throw out such a staple of the rail lines?” He chuckled, looking down at her, “I don't believe we got to finish our drink.”

“Nope, we sure didn't. And I had to use yours to edjumacate a Frenchman, so, if you want me to buy...” She watched the train stop, digging around in her pocket for another of her odd cigarettes. “Damnit,” She muttered, sliding one into her mouth, “I left the frickin' matches. You wouldn't happen to have any on there, would you?” She asked, grinning at his nod. With her bruised, bleeding mouth, black and blue cheeks, she looked a bit like a naughty child who had just broken into Mummy and Daddy's liquor cabinet and taken a severe spanking for it.

“Oh, I'm sure we can find you some. Greenie's got enough incense to fumigate most of the train himself, not that I think he lights it often.” Now, it was her turn to look confused, “Mutual friend of myself and my sister. Helped us get the train and, incidentally, you.”

“Creepy, dude. You could've stopped at the train.” She stepped onto the first car that opened before them, “I don't want to think of you and your buddies checking up on me.” She paused, “Wait, does this mean he knows what I look like naked?” She asked in a whisper.

“Maybe. If he does, he hasn't told me.” Jacob flicked his eyes down her boyish figure, “Why, what do you look like naked?”

She scoffed, like a proper highborn lady, “Not on a first date,” She replied, walking toward the bar car, “You should probably let me finish cleaning up your face. It kinda looks like someone tenderized a steak and just stuck it on a mannequin.”

“Me? You look like you fell down a flight of stairs.”

“Pfft. I happen to rock the 'klutzy pot pixie' look.” She raised her chin, sitting him down at the bar, looking toward where some of the Rooks sat on some of the soft chairs. “Hey, guys,” She greeted with a nervous grin. Jacob nodded to them, and they calmed down. “Any of you have any matches?”

One of the boys pulled a set from his pocket. She struck it, lighting her cigarette and inhaling, holding the smoke in her lungs before slowly blowing it all out. “Thanks,” She said in a different tone, less trying to be calm and collected and more genuinely calm. She looked back toward Jacob, the rim of her eyes red, “Hey, do me a favor. I need something harder than beer, if you've got it. I need an entire bottle of vodka. The good stuff, too, not the back-alley trash. Or some moonshine.” She giggled, “Man, why do they call it that?”

Jacob shook his head, “I have no idea what you're even talking about, so, we'll have to settle. Gin alright?”

“Yeah, no problem.” She grabbed one of the large glasses, holding it out to him. “And get some whiskey and cheesecloth so I can clean up that mug of yours.” She took another inhalation of her cigarette, blowing the smoke out after a moment, coughing deeply, “Ugh, lungs, cooperate.”

He was very briefly aware that the smoke that came out of her didn't smell quite like tobacco, though, what she put down her lungs was her business. He poured the glass, handing it out to her. “Thank you, but I think I'll pass. I will wear your bruises as a badge of honor.”

Kestrel laughed out loud, shaking her head. The other Rooks slowly migrated out. “Yeah, no. Sit the fuck down and let me fix you before you get gangrene or whatever you get when your bruises and stuff get infected.” She paused, “...you know, we might want to get an actual doctor here.”

Jacob tried his best not to laugh, “No,” He fake-scoffed, “I'm sure the tried and true method of 'splash alcohol on it until you can't feel it anymore' will be fine.”

She shrugged, “I think applying alcohol to anything until you can't feel it anymore usually works.” She took the freshly offered bottle of whiskey, and the cloth from the edge of the bar. “Sit.”

“Woof,” He replied cheekily, hopping the bar and sitting on the stool indicated. She got up on her knees, the cigarette in her mouth as she poured some of the whiskey onto the pale cloth, carefully brushing the dirt and sweat off of his bruised face. “Ow.” He hissed under his breath.

“Yikes, you Fryes really are babies,” She snickered, taking his chin in her hand and turning it so she could get more at it. She seemed distant, but still focused on him, her eyes raking over her handiwork. She inhaled deeply, setting the cigarette down, before turning her head and blowing the smoke away from him, “All right, Frye-Bo,” She snickered at her own, incomprehensible joke, “Let me get the open wound. This might...” Her eyes dropped to his mouth, where she'd split his lip, the same he had hers.

She caught her bottom lip in her teeth, brushing his lip with the wet cloth, wiping the blood away. “...sting a bit,” She finally said, after what felt like an eternity.

He winced, eyes still on her face. She was definitely more girlish up close, each edge he had thought hard and rigid in the dim light of the pit softened in the dying sunlight coming through the train window; the gentle curve of her little button nose, the curve of her cheek, the cut of her jaw, the point in her chin.

The look of concentration on her face almost made him feel as if she were trying to burn holes in his face, as she hardly blinked as she worked, her hand turning his chin down insistently, the same strength that had nearly torn his arm off trying to move her earlier apparent in her small, delicate, pale fingers. She moved up a little more, wiping at the split she'd put in his brow as well. She was closer now, his face nearly brushing her collarbone. He was very dimly aware of the stinging in his forehead, all but captured in her scent. No womanly perfumes or powders here; the smell of that strange smoke that seemed to permeate her skin and clothes, sweat and blood from their fight. A little bit of the alcohol she had been drinking. He started to lean in a little, before she pulled away, clearing her throat.

“Holy contact high, Batman,” She snickered, sitting back on her heels and setting the bloodied cloth aside. She picked up her cigarette, inhaling down to the last little bit, holding it inside.

“Excuse me?” He asked, raising an eyebrow, wincing as he did.

“Don't worry about it.” She said, obviously keeping the smoke as long as possible before she breathed out. He shrugged, picking up the cloth, finding a clean section. He poured a little whiskey onto it.

“Your turn.” He started to move toward her.

“Oh, man, don't. This is nothing.” She jerked her head back, like a child avoiding getting their face washed.

“No, no, you put me through the pain of disinfecting, it's your turn.” He chuckled, “Hold still, Kes.”

“Nope nope nope.” She put her hands on his chest, but didn't push him away, “I can clean myself up. I'm like a cat that way, really self-sufficient.”

“Well, forgive me for saying so, but this cat looks like she was thrown in a bag and dropped in the sewers. Now. Hold still.”

She huffed, crossing her arms over her chest as he turned her chin up. She looked away from him as he started with the dirt around her bruises. She barely flinched, which surprised him; most of them were already transitioning to dark black and blues, and he knew how tender those could be. “You really took a beating. Did it ever occur to you to block, since you can apparently do everything else?”

“Yeah, I mean, obviously. But, it's no fun if you don't get hit.” She looked up at him as he hesitated, “I can do my own mouth, if you're too chicken.”

It was enough of a challenge, at least to him. He turned her chin up a little more, looking at the marks on her mouth, wiping the blood away. She met his eyes, seeming to stare almost through him. And yet, they were as doll's eyes; glassy and empty, seeing nothing yet seeing everything.

He cleared his throat, pulling away. “There. All finished. Go on and drink your gin.”

Kes picked up the tumbler, knocking it back, holding it out to him again.

“I'm gonna need a lot more of this, if we're already touching faces and stuff,” She pointed out.

He did the only gentlemanly thing he could do. He poured her another glass.

-

Evie pushed open the door to the car to see the Bruiser drunk, head on the bar, bottle of whiskey in his still-wrapped hand, and her brother pretending to be more drunk than he was. If there were a few lessons he had learned from their father, Jacob was very good at pretending to be more intoxicated than he was for information.

“Ohai, Evie,” Bruiser snickered, sitting up and drinking the last of the whiskey, “You find what you were looking for?”

“Not quite, Mister...” She trailed off, looking at Jacob.

“Miss, actually,” Her twin corrected, affecting a drunken slur, “Miss Kestrel Miyamoto has agreed to jump ships and work for us, so long as we get her leafy supply lines from India to London.”

“Jump _train_ ,” Kestrel pointed at Jacob, making him snigger along with her.

Two of a feather, these. Evie forced a small smile. “Well, then, welcome aboard. Unfortunately, Miss Miyamoto-”

“Kessstreelllll,” She slurred out, “Miss Miyamoto was my sister.” For a moment, a serious look crossed the bruise-covered girl's face, before it was gone with a small grin, “Hey, Jake, do me a flavor. Pass me 'nother bottle.”

“Kestrel,” Evie started again, “I am going to have to speak to my brother on some...personal matters. We'll be back. Jacob?”

Her twin frowned a little, picking up a bottle with careful fingers, handing it over and half-staggering out of the car, Evie mostly closing the door behind them. “She's a monster in the pits, and she's agreed to give us what she can on Starrick and the gangs.”

“She's also drunk as a fish,” Evie pointed out, “How much did you give her?”

“She drank damn near half the whiskey and all of the gin. She can hold quite a bit of-”

“Jacob, what if she's lying? That has been known to happen. What if she's here to find out where we stop and then bring Templars aboard.”

“Well, I know for a fact she won't be doing it tonight. She can barely keep her head up.”

“And what if she reneges when she's sober?” Evie poked him in the chest with two fingers, “You know for a fact there's not a man or woman aboard who can throw her out if she decides to run back to Starrick.”

He frowned, looked away. He hadn't thought of that, obviously. She sighed, looking in at the smaller figure now chugging the clear liquid in the bottle at the bar, before settling her forehead on the bar again. “There's something about her. She's hiding something.”

“Everyone's hiding something.” Jacob shot back, “What do you want me to do? Tell her no, throw her out the window while she's a boneless mess? What if she's serious?”

“Of course not! I'm just saying you might have thought this through a little more before you brought her to our base of operations! You could have walked her home.”

He turned his eyes next to the ceiling.

“You didn't bother to find out where her home is, in case she becomes a target, did you?”

“It was sort of a side thought.” He admitted, before looking back at her, “And...I'm starting to think she might not have one.”

She opened her mouth, shut it, opened it again. “What makes you say that?”

“Every single Rook I know of here has somewhere to get off, as soon as the train stops. We've stopped at least five times, and she was mostly sober, maybe a little tippled, for at least four of them. She didn't have any inclination to get up or get off.” He looked in at her, and Evie looked as well.

Kestrel had her cheek resting against the bar, eyes half-closed, empty bottle still in her grip. Even Evie had to admit, she looked a bit pathetic, her waistcoat smudged with dirt, sweat and blood and her pants starting to wear through at the seams, her feet bare and grimy. There had to be a years' worth of dirt under her toenails. Her cheeks were flushed where they weren't almost black with bruises. But, she definitely had no intentions of moving, sitting solidly on the bar stool. Evie almost felt bad for her.

Almost. She'd heard that the Bruiser had joined up of her own accord, without too much prompting; not only that, as a Bow Street Runner, she regularly had information and agents against Starrick removed. A Templar, if not wholly sworn in, likely to be soon.

“I'm going to ask,” Jacob pointed out.

“Jacob, we can't adopt her.”

“Why not? She has the skills we need-”

“Except loyalty! If we ever lose a shipment, she could just as easily jump back to Starrick's train!”

“The hell she will. Evie, she's not like them. There's something...” He met her suspicious gaze, “What?”

“What was it you keep telling me about Henry? Don't let personal feelings get involved with the mission?”

“Evie!”

“If you happen to be sweet on her, that's fine. But, she still has to go.”

“Come on, that's not what it is at all. Sit down and talk to her. For me, please?”

“Jacob, she's not-”

“Please.”

She sighed, “All right.” She opened the door, walking in and sitting down next to Kestrel. The girl smelled of alcohol and non-tobacco smoke; something sweeter, almost like cloves and vanilla, maybe a bit of sage. “Miss Kestrel,” She offered.

“You know what I like about this train?” The brunette asked, raising her head just a little.

“What?” Evie gave a smile, watching Jacob fake staggering in.

“It's warm. Like, shit, I thought I was gonna freeze my tits off in that arena last night. And I don't really have a lot left to lose.” She patted her chest. Jacob gave Evie a look over her head.

“Did you have another fight last night?” Evie inquired.

“Hell no. My fights stop as soon as the sun goes down, start again as soon as it comes up at dawn. 'sin my contract.” Kestrel looked over at Jacob, “That needs written down. I don't like sleep, but I need it every now and then.”

The man grinned, “Fine, fine, sure.” He said, patting the girl's head much like one would a terrier, “You sleep as much as you want. Three square meals a day. Warm train. You know what?”

“What?”

“You should just move in here.”

“Jacob!” Evie snapped in a whisper.

“Holy flaming Christ tittyfucking Kali, I should!” Kestrel said, as if it was some kind of revelation, “I mean, if it's no big. I don't take up much room. 'cept my bong, but that's only...” She held her hand up a little bit off the bar, “I can't pay much rent, though. Is that okay?” She wobbled back, landing on Evie.

For such a strong little thing, she hardly weighed anything at all. She looked up at the female assassin with surprisingly large, puppylike eyes.

“We live on a train, there's not much rent to be paid,” Evie finally offered, “Why don't we get you somewhere to sleep and we'll think about it...” She paused, looking at Jacob, who was grinning like an idiot, “We have a few nice couches.”

“Awesome.” Kestrel grinned, slowly hauling herself upright, “That's great. Direct me, oh Frye Sister, She Most Generous. Also, I need six meals a day. Round plates. Squares are not cool. Squares are pretty lame, actually.”

Jacob snickered. “Very well,” He fake-slurred out, “Six round meals a day.” He stood up, wobbling a little, “Here, you're sloshed. Lean on me, you tiny lush.” He offered his hand, Evie getting her other side as she stood, staggering.

They found a couch, at least, not one of the nice ones that Agnes had just reupholstered, laying/dropping her onto the cushions. Kestrel was asleep as soon at her head made contact, lying bonelessly with one arm hanging off of the edge, back turned toward them. Jacob looked at her, then at Evie.

“I still think this is a terrible idea. But, she's your responsibility.”

“Of course. I'll feed her, walk her, give her baths, even housetrain her if you like.”

“This is serious. She could be a real liability.” Evie laid a blanket over the girl, “You had best hope she doesn't bother Hen- Mr. Green at all.”

He scoffed, “I think she's a little frightened of Greenie, considering he knows who she is and where she spends her time. Anyway, she's no child. She's a bit rough around the edges, but she can handle herself. Now, I have a trip to make. I have to stop in at Lambeth and see about removing the Soothing Syrup from the streets...” He looked down at himself, “Should probably clean up and change first.”

Evie pursed her lips. “Be careful, all right?”

“When am I ever not?”

She looked at the small, sleeping figure now curled almost into a ball under the blanket. That seemed as much of an answer as any.


	4. London Town

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This actually almost didn’t happen, because of some family drama at home. So, yay me, and hopefully I can’t make the next one as long as this one. Thanks to the whole Wye Squad for helping me out; RebornfromSeas, thedi_WRECK_tor, RozUnderPressure, PropaganJack and queertitan.

Her whole self _ached_ , it _hurt_ in a way she hadn't hurt in months. Maybe because she hadn't gotten drunk like that in months. Maybe because she was laying on something that was soft and squishy instead of hard and unyielding like the benches.

Kes groaned, sitting up, hand on her aching head. “Son of a bitch.” She mumbled, holding her poor cranium, “I'm _never_ drinking with a Frye boy again.” She sighed, “Yeah, fuck yeah I am. But not that much.” She pulled a joint from her pocket, sighing as she saw it flattened, a little bent. “Man,” She shook her head, slowly coming back to herself, “I am a fucking idiot.” She put it in her mouth, patting herself down.

“Here, Miss Kestrel.”

“Oh than-” Kes looked at the hand holding the match in her face, not having heard anyone approach and jumped back, screaming bloody murder, “HOLY FUCKING SHIT FUCK JESUS FLAMING TITTYFUCKING KALI WHO THE FUCKING SHIT-!” She moaned weakly, “Ow ow fuckity ow...” She shielded her eyes from the light, her stomach rebelling against the sudden movement, “That was dumb. Really dumb.” She flopped forward on the couch, face pressed into the cushion, ass pointed skyward. It seemed to soothe her stomach. “Hand me my blunt, Mister?”

She turned her face to look at him. He gave a slightly painful smile, “That would be this?” He asked, plucking up the flattened paper roll, handing it to her, along with the match he had been offering her earlier.

“Yep,” She sat up slowly, taking them, lighting up and inhaling. It settled her, though her stomach still roiled. “So, you have a name, stranger?” She batted her lashes, as if flirtatiously.

He chuckled, offering a hand. He had a great smile, and fantastic hair. If she had to guess, he was the human incarnation of Carlos from Welcome to Night Vale. “Henry Green. I'm glad to make your acquaintance, and I look forward to working with you.”

“Ohhh. Riiiight,” She shook his hand, “You're the one Evie Frye was trying to find stuff with last night. Snogging and whatever. And the one who was following me.”

He flushed, and it was a nice color on him. “Yes, Miss Frye and I are in search of a few specific sets of objects. And I did have you followed, I apologize.”

“'sall good.” She took another hit in, let it out, leaning back against the couch, “Anyone ever tell you that you shouldn't sneak up on a fighter, though?” She tilted her head until it almost touched her shoulder, “I mean, the last guy who snuck up on me like that, I spread his nose from here,” She touched one cheekbone, “To here,” She touched the opposite side, wincing, “Ouch.”

“I will remember that for the future.” He looked at her bruises, “It looks as if Jacob really did a number on you, Miss Kestrel.”

“And you don't have to call me 'Miss'. It's just Kestrel. Or Kes.” She shrugged, “I think Thresher did most of it. Nothing I can't handle. You should've seen the time I fought Six Foot Stan! He comes at me with a right, and I didn't notice until he was this far from my face,” She held her fingers a little ways apart, “that he's got these nasty brass knuckles with spikes on! So, me, I dig out my rings from my pocket and put them on and-” She blinked, realizing that he was pulling a small jar from his pocket, unscrewing the lid and sitting next to her, “-and this is a little forward, Mr. Greenie, I'm really not into morning sex with a hangover.”

Henry blushed even more red, “It's- it's a poultice. For your bruises. You seemed to be telling your story with your hands, so I thought I would apply it for you, if you were amenable to it.”

“Um,” Kestrel looked at the jar, at his face, then back at the jar again, “Can we not and say we did? I like the pain. Reminds me I'm alive. So, anyway, I pull my rings on-” She blinked, looking up as the door opened again, several Rooks walking in with a few boxes. Her boxes. “-hey guys,” She greeted, looking back at Henry, “Long story short, my cheek still has scars on it from where he punched some holes in it, but he has 'Fuck Off' permanently embedded in his ribs.”

He cleared his throat, “Well, that sounds very...interesting, Kestrel.” He looked toward the boxes. He was uncomfortable, that was obvious. Such is life. She swung her legs to the floor, inhaling the next breath in off of her blunt, holding it for a long few minutes, letting him think and her try to ease the pounding in her head, “Jacob has told me that you have a...supply shipment that you will need moved down from India to London. I must admit, my sources are not as good as they could be, but, if you could tell me what it is you're looking for, I could try my hand at shifting the trains.”

Kes blinked, exhaled, “That would be pretty good,” She admitted, before giving a little grin, “It might be easier to get the Jamaican, though.” She patted his shoulder, looking at one of the clocks on the wall, “Welp. Only ten minutes less. Thanks, Mr. Greenie. I appreciate your helping me out thing.” She grinned, “I got a meeting.” With surprising agility – surprising even to herself – she ducked into two of the boxes, plucking out some clothes before moving into one of the abandoned rooms.

She didn't bother getting too clean as she stripped down. She washed her grimy feet, her blood-crusted nails. She patted down her bruises with cold water and combed out her hair with someone's pretty wooden comb. If she had to guess, probably Evie's. She stripped down, wiping the worst of the filth off of herself, changing into her usual button-down shirt, cardigan, and pants, with a pair of black shoes on her feet.

Sure, the clothes were grubby and falling apart, but, they were hers. She settled her cap on her head, looking at herself in the mirror. Kes grinned, giving herself a pair of finger guns, “You're...pretty good,” She quoted, in her best Revolver Ocelot voice before she opened the window. Being small came in handy when you had to make a quick escape.

Out the window she went, catching a light pole at the station and swinging into King's Cross with nary a look at her, humming a little to herself as she walked through the crowd with nary a part. As much as she admitted she liked parting the crowd like the Red Sea in the ring, she also liked playing the sneaky rogue sometimes.

Her eyes scanned the crowd for her police contact. All the Runners had one, as it turned out, since being a private investigator tended to end up with her helping the police as well as the wealthy families that hired her. Like this case in particular, several noble families worried that their daughters had gotten dragged down into the criminal underworld, trafficked about London with naught but their faces and a few trinkets to name them above the rest.

“Howdy, Froh-drick,” Kes stepped up alongside the man pretending to be much older, hair chalked white, his clothes dignified but worn. Not a rich old man, but not a poor one, “Whatchya got for me?”

“Inspector Abberline,” He insisted under his breath, “Honestly, between you and Frye, I don't know which is worse.”

“Me. Always. Whatchya got for me,” She adjusted her hat a little, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, “You said you had something for me.”

“I do. Another letter from your contact,” Abberline looked upon the small Runner. She was never serious, always tended to cause a fuss, messily leaving bodies in her wake...though, none they could tie her to. But, she always brought in information and the people she needed to bring home; a wonder when it came to missing persons, “Are you all right? You look a little...green around the gills.”

“I'm great,” She winked, though she also looked like she hadn't slept the night before. She held out one delicate hand, and even he could see it shook a little, “Come on, Froh-drick, don't be stingy.”

Abberline rolled his eyes, placing the paper in her hand and watching her eagerly rip the envelope open, “I do hope you'll share at least some of the glory this time. Not that I care, but the Yard does desperately need the lift, as do the people of London?” He asked, as she flicked open the paper and began to read.

Kes' eyes soaked up the calligraphy as best a pained brain could translate.

_My friend Blackbird,  
I've been able to find three of the five girls you were looking for within Whitechapel, and you were right. They are being trafficked through the sex lines, under a specific pimp; one Jack Splatter. Be careful, he's a dangerous one, he is. He won't give them up without a fight.  
I'll meet you tonight, seven o'clock, in the appointed place.  
Your contact,  
Fey._

Kestrel grinned even wider than she had been before. Her headache was little more than a distant memory as she folded up the paper and put it in her pocket. “You got it, boss,” She told Abberline, in her best Tony DiNozzo impression, “You want me to leave them where you can find them, or do you want me to actually bring them home and just coach them?” When he opened his mouth, she laughed. “I'll see you at eight.”

“Wait!” Abberline snapped as she turned and seemed to disappear. He huffed. “Don't kill anyone!” He demanded.

Kes snickered, tipping her hat to him, bowing and walking down the street, amongst the crowd.

~

Whitechapel at night was a sight to behold. Not exactly a pleasant one, but, it was a sight. Jacob watched the girls walking up and down the alleys, looking for one in particular. Starrick's favorite, he thought drily, one Margaret Cunningham-nee-Jameson. The name was vaguely familiar to him, but he'd be damned if he could remember why. He knew basically what she looked like, thanks to Green's eternal nosiness.

To his surprise, Henry had been surprised by, but not against Kestrel moving in with them. On the contrary, he seemed to actually like the girl. Not that Jacob had doubted for a second that he would; Kes seemed likeable enough, once one was able to translate her. He was more worried Henry would be miffed about extra company to ruin the moments between him and Evie.

Back to the job. Margaret wasn't out yet, but he had to keep an eye out for her, in order to find his way right up to Starrick, the untouchable Templar leader. Well, you got a man by the balls and he became much less untouchable very quickly. The sooner they got Starrick out of the way, the better.

“Boo.” An effeminate voice greeted behind him, snapping him out of his thoughts. Quite literally, Jacob turned so fast that he staggered, nearly falling off of the edge of the building.

Kes laughed at him, arms wrapped around her stomach as if to soothe sore ribs. “Holy fuckshit, that was fucking funny,” She was dressed in a hood, much like him. But, rather than a coat, it seemed to be a single garment that pulled over her head, all in black, made of some kind of fleece to keep out the London fog. Then, some rather distressingly dingy brown pants and a pair of black shoes. She was wearing shoes, that surprised him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He demanded, pride a little hurt that she'd managed to sneak up on him.

“Meeting a contact,” She replied, “Runner business, shady stuff, top secret.” She was silent for only a moment, before adding, “She calls herself Fey. Her real name is Margie, Margie Cunningham-nee-Jameson.”

Jacob looked down at the group of the girls walking below them, “So am I,” He murmured, before grinning a little, “Shall we join forces, then, Bruiser?” He asked.

She stretched her arms over her head, “I dunno if you can keep up, Frye. But, if you can...” She turned her gaze toward their quarry. Despite the slightly unfocused look, she seemed to be taking stock of their surroundings just fine. He watched as well, finally seeing the girl coming down the streets. “Mine,” Kes announced in a high-pitched voice, with what he could only guess was a parody of his own accent, crouching and looking up at him, “Last one there buys.” She shot off.

He blinked, then smirked, “You're on,” He replied, crouching as well, before blinking in surprise, “Do you count, or do I count?”

Kes looked back at him, blinking as well, before thinking, before shrugging. “We can count together. Three...”

“...two...”

“OneGO!”

Kes shot off like a bullet, Jacob on her heels. He spotted a strange emblem on the back of her shirt, a green leaf with serrated edges, one that he didn't recognize. He looked back ahead, jumping with her, neck-and-neck. She seemed to be completely carefree, laughing as he almost missed the next rooftop.

“Smooth move, Ex-Lax,” She called back to him over one shoulder, her foot catching on the very edge of the next roof, sending her falling to the roof as he overtook her.

He snickered, skidding to a halt and walking back. “Shall we call this a draw?” He asked, holding out a hand to her, somehow surprised at how small and delicate her hand was compared to his. He had been expecting bigger fists for some reason, with how hard she hit. She grasped his wrist, pulling herself up onto the roof with him, “You all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm good. Skinned knee.” She shrugged, looking down at where her knee was now very steadily bleeding through her pants, “Let's get down there.”

Her hand still wrapped around his wrist, small fingers surprisingly tight, like she was still afraid she would fall. She looked up at his eyes, before clearing her throat and releasing him. Was that the lamplight from below, or was that a blush on her cheeks. She ran to the edge of the roof, climbing down as easily as a monkey, and he watched her, the muscles in her legs tense and defined through the brown pants, a little drop of red blood visible going down into her sock. He shook himself out of his staring, climbing down himself.

“Miss Margaret,” He greeted, and the girl jumped, turning around and almost falling over backwards.

“Easy, Fey-Fey,” Kes replied, putting a hand on the small of her back, “We're here to help.

The girl herself was smaller than Jacob had expected, at least in height, her skin surprisingly smooth, though that could have been the heavy makeup she was wearing; it was hard to tell the shade for precisely that reason. She seemed mostly soft edges, especially compared to small, sharp-edged Kestrel. She had tied herself into a corset tightly, pushing most of the wide curves up into her chest or down into her hips, when it obviously naturally sat at her belly. Dark brown hair was braided intricately against her head, a few locks hanging down around her neck, brushing her round, doll-like cheeks, which wore two large spots of rouge on the apples that only served to make them look rounder. Her nose had a small bump in the bridge where it had obviously been broken and reset, perhaps several times; her lips bore small marks where she had obviously bitten into them deeply, and he thought he spotted a set of bruises beneath the pale powder.

She was dressed all in purple, cheap, but pretty, to accent her dark hair and dark eyes, which he was sure were brown in proper light but looked nearly black in the shadows. The dress was cut surprisingly close, but with a style aping at higher-class than her obvious station, a little bit of black lace near the bodice to accentuate her...obvious attributes. She smoothed her hands on her dress as she steadied herself, looking between the two of them. Obviously trying to figure out who was the Runner and who was the Assassin.

Finally, Margie settled her eyes on Jacob and smiled, “'tis noice ta meetchya, Mister Blackbird,” She greeted, “'m Margie, but, ye already knew that, aye?”  
Kes smothered a laugh as long as she could manage, before bursting out laughing, “Nice to meet you, too, Fey,” She greeted, giving a two-fingered salute, “I'm Blackbird. Name's Kes. This is Jake. He kills people.”

“Jacob Frye,” He added, “At your service, Miss Margaret.”

“Margie,” The brunette corrected, looking at Kestrel a little oddly, obviously not expecting the scruffy thing to be a Runner, before looking back at him, “Yer here for Starrick.”

“I'm here for Starrick,” He agreed.


	5. I'm Not Calling You a Liar/Castle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This last chapter...took way too long for way too little. But, it’s all set and done and we can keep this ball rolling right down into the acid bath! Woohoo!
> 
> HEAVY Trigger Warnings for implied forced prostitution as well as physical abuse and physical fighting

Margie looked between the two again. It was strange to think that this big, gallumphing puppy-looking man was the Assassin and the small, whip-skinny boy the Runner. It seemed like it should be the other way around. But, perhaps she shouldn't judge. She looked toward Kes, taking a small breath in, “Mister Splatter should be in the pub,” She murmured, “Probably countin'. Agin.”

The Runner looked her over with a careful eye, before tapping his own cheekbone. “That his handiwork there, ma'am?” He asked, sounding like he was trying to be a Carolina Sugar Baron. Margie's face flamed. She'd thought she'd covered it up.

“Aye...aye, he...he um...” She looked away. There was no other explanation. Kes nodded, looking toward the pub, “The girls are within,” She added, “He loikes ta have all us not werkin' insoide whoile he counts. Jest in case.”

“What a nice guy,” Kes sneered, the false accent gone, “I'm gonna go talk to him, you two can talk about Starrick.”

Jacob nodded. “Have fun,” He said, maybe a little too sweetly, letting the skinny brunette go in on his own. The boy just gave a salute with two fingers. Frye must have seen the expression of her face, because before she could move, his hand was on her arm. “Don't worry too much about Kes, Miss...Margie.” He gave her a wicked little smirk that might have turned her knees to jelly were she not used to getting them on a regular basis, “She is a Runner after all, she can handle herself. Now. Crawford Starrick.”

She stared a little bit in shock. “She?” She stammered out, all thoughts of Crawford and his demise forgotten for now, “Bl-Blackbird is...is a wee lass?” She pointed, “And ye jest...handed her ta Jack Splatter on a fuckin' plate?!” Her arm was now shaking, “Wot koind of a fuckin' Assassin are ye, yer supposed ta _protect_ the weak!”

“Firstly, I said she can take care of herself. Secondly, she went in there by herself. And thirdly, don't yell about that on the street where anyone can hear!” He sounded like he was trying to scold her. She smacked him in the chest as hard as she was able with one fist, “...what…?”

“Ye cannae jest let a wee lass loike tha' in a room with Jack Splatter and expect her ta come out all roight! Ye fuckin' bampot!” She banged on his chest again, with the other one this time, and he looked at her, confused, “He rules mosta the whores down here in Whitechapel! 'e didn't just fuckin' do it overnight, ye scabby numpty, he rules with an iron fist as bad as Starrick! Worse, even, stealin' nobility outta their beds an' puttin' em ta work. And ye sent a tiny Yank in there ta bring him in?! Are ye daft in the head?!”

Jacob let her go on a bit longer, eyes widening as her accent got thicker and her words more leaned toward Scotch than English, before finally catching her fists. “Easy,” He said quietly, “Easy. Like I said. She can handle herself...” He watched her eyes, “We're not going to let him hurt you or anyone else anymore.”

Her own eyes stung with tears. “Aye. Heard that afore.” She mumbled, yanking her wrists free from him, “Freddy Abberloine used ta say tha' twoice a week, afore Splatter got holda him.” She looked away, “He an' his boys made sure Feddy don't come aboot here anymore.” She rubbed her arm, “Only chance we get is if we get a good cloient. Someone ta take us off tha street a few days a week, help patch us up.”

“Like Starrick.”

“Crawford Starrick's a fuckin' monster.” She spat out, more on instinct than anything else, “If naught fer him, Oi would nae be here, an' me Da would.” She grit her teeth. Three years later and it still hurt to think about Tavish, about how no one had believed her, about that smug bastard's face when she pointed a teary finger and nothing happened.

That smug bastard who now regularly brought her to his home, to his bed, and soothed away her bruises. Wiped away her tears and the drops of blood from split lips and bloodied noses. Some nights, he did nothing more than let her hold onto him for a good night's sleep. He brought her flowers when he left for work, made sure she was taken care of. He even bought her the silver paint she liked to use.

Jacob tilted his head to one side, the puppy analogy seeming more apt now, “He's a monster...but you sleep with him.”

“Aye, we all do things we do nae want ta do.” Margie muttered, “Crawford Starrick had me Da killed at me own comin' out party ta prove a point. He had the coppers bought off so Oi could nae get justice. He's the reason 'm on the street, an' if anyone is goin' ta help ye remove him, it'll be me.”

He looked as if he wanted to say more before there was a crash. Margie turned on instinct, running toward the pub with her skirts in her hand. Half-trained or no, she had enough Assassin in her to keep just ahead of him, at least for now. She skidded to a halt, almost falling off of her heeled shoes at the sight of the chaos before her.

The prostitutes – some male, some female, some both, some in-between – were mostly half-dressed, running out of the door and running straight toward Margie like moths to a flame. The last of them, a girl of barely fifteen, ran and launched herself into Margie's arms, hiding her face in the older girl's bosom. She was sobbing and bloodied, with telltale bruises. Splatter had been in the middle of making an example of the poor, mewling thing.

“Magpie,” The Cockney voice whimpered, “Magpie, the scary boy in the hood said for us all to get out. I thought I was going to die!” She turned her face up toward Margie's, exquisite blue-green eyes blackened and one swelling shut already. Her black hair hung half in her face, half pulled back where she had put it up in ribbons. “Mister Splatter said he was gonna kill me, Magpie. You wouldn't let him do that, would you?” She hid her face again, snuggling close, as if trying to burrow into Margie's body.

“'course not, love. 'course not.” Margie assured, hearing the slamming of furniture and bodies inside. She threw an accusatory look at Jacob, before looking back down at the girl in her arms. “Jewel, ye go stand with the others. Oi'll go deal with Mister Splatter.”

“He'll shatter yer nose again. He was so mad, Magpie.”

“Oi know. Oi know. 'tis nothin Oi cannae handle.” She kissed the top of Jewel's head, “Go stand with the others. See if Rosie has somethin' cold ta put on that cheek.” She looked back toward where Jacob had been standing.

The Assassin was gone.

The back window of the pub shattered and there was a scream.

Kes had walked in as the man was counting, quiet as a mouse and not half as noticeable.

Splatter was smaller than she had expected, thin, almost shockingly, emaciatedly so. His skin was paled, sallow, pulled tight over his bones, giving him a look like a rabid wolf on the hunt. His eyes were dark and keen, and his hair was red, greasy, smoothed back with pomade but for a few unruly curls at the back of his neck. But, if his body made him look poor and emaciated, his clothes spoke of some sort of wealth – a black suit, crisp and cut so well it couldn't possibly have been a hand-me-down; with a surprisingly full white fur collar that also didn't look cheap. He had clean shoes, which was a feat in this town, and a long white cane with a heavy silver ball on the end of it. One all of the prostitutes seemed to be eyeing.

She kept her eyes on the man. He was counting coins into a scale, each thin, quick fingertip running over it before setting it lovingly on the pile. Suddenly, he stopped and looked up.

“Ye,” He said, standing and pointing his cane, “Jewel.”

The others backed away. Kes almost had an emotion at the pretty little thing standing there, all scared and alone. “Yes, Mister Splatter?” She asked, in a quavering voice.

“Yer short.”

Kes almost sputtered laughing, considering it sounded as simple as if he were remarking on her height. Hell yeah she's short, she's barely out of her tween faze, if this was the modern US she'd still listen to, like, One Direction.

But, obviously, it was about the money, and Jewel started to shake.

“Are ye holdin' out on me,” The redhead asked, and while his voice was calm, cool, and collected. But, his hand was wrapped surprisingly tightly around that cane. Almost white-knuckled, “Ye keepin' yer little stash under yer bedroll ta try ta get away?”

“N-No! No, Mister Splatter, that's all I got! Honest!” Jewel took half a step back, the others taking another full step away.

Splatter stood, walking toward her. Raised the cane, and brought it down under her face, “Yer a fuckin' liar, ya little viper! Where's the rest of me money?” He demanded. “Where is it?!”

Jewel took it, laying on the ground with the occasional sob of “I don't know” or “I didn't take it, I swear!” to his threats of death upon her and all her little friends.

Kes finally stepped out of the crowd, walking over and grabbing the cane before it could hit again. Her hood up, looking at his eyes under the shadows from it and her hat. “Hi,” She greeted, almost cheerfully, “I'm gonna have to ask you to cut that shit out.”

Splatter went to pull the cane out of her grip, but it didn't come free. “The fuck 're ye, ya little runt?” He demanded.

“Name's Blackbird. Friends call me Bruiser.”

There was a hush. Splatter was Blighter-Funded; he and all his prostitutes knew who Bruiser was. “Aye, ye traitorous guttersnipe?” He asked, “Ye let me go afore I rip them pretty eyes outta yer skull 'n' feed 'em to ye.”

Kes laughed. “Jewel, right?” She asked the shaking little girl on the ground, “Why don't you and the others go outside and wait for me?” She waited until they scrambled away, “So, you like hitting girlies, huh?” She asked, tilting her head, “Welp, I'm about as girlie as they get. Let's go, big guy.”

She let go of his cane, and he brought it around into her cheek. She felt her jaw pop, but nothing really she couldn't fix. She spat blood, laughing. “All right,” She shrugged, “My turn.” She shifted her feet, moving in and grabbing him by the collar, throwing him into one of the far tables. He shook as he stood up. She sauntered over to him, grabbing his collar and bringing him down into her knee as she brought it up. She heard the bones snap, before he swung his cane as hard as he could into her ribs while he was still upright. She actually winced at that, hearing a little crack as well.

She lifted, tossed him against one of the far walls, holding her side. “Son of a...” She mumbled, trying to stand upright. Fire and electricity ran up her side, her spine, one leg. Kes looked at Splatter, who rose, but barely. “Hey,” She hissed out hoarsely, “What was that about my eyes?” She picked up the fallen cane, leaning on it, “You were gonna do what, you big, skinny scarecrow?”

“Do nae touch me!” The man whimpered, backing away, “Do nae get near me,” His back was to the wall, “Oi'll give ye wotever ya loike. Money, girls, tha' Kush ye love so much, just do nae hurt me nae more.”

Kes stopped. She looked up at him, for he still towered over her. She thought of the green – or, in this case, gold – the man was literally rolling in. She thought of the pretty little things, of all genders, that he employed. She thought of a big shipment of pot, all clean and burning down her throat and blotting out her mind.

She thought of Jewel's terrified face, of her big blue eyes and bruised cheeks. She thought of Jay, in the same state, holding her clothes to her and crying all night long when she thought no one could hear, how she would crawl into Kes' bed at night afterwards and just whimper, holding her legs closed so tight they sometimes locked the next morning and wouldn't let her get up.

She thought of Jacob. Of his face, the determined expression when he'd looked at Margie's bruises.

Kes looked Jack Splatter in the face and brought the cane she had been leaning on up under his chin. She heard the crack, saw his teeth fly everywhere. “Nah,” She grinned, “I can cover it. Thanks anyway, though.” She flipped some of her bloodied hair from her eyes, knocking his legs out from under him at the knees, “The noble girls. The ones you kidnapped. I want their signet rings.”

“Oi-Oi do nae have 'em,” He stuttered, his gummy, bloody mouth making it hard to make out words.

“Wrong answer,” Kes grinned a little wider, grabbing him by the collar and tossing him out the window. He screamed as he flew, hitting the pavement behind.

She jumped out the broken glass, walking toward him with only a hint of a limp, “Signet rings,” She said, “One last time.” She spoke in a sing-song voice, “Or else I'll have to bash your fucking skull in.”

He backed away. And promptly pissed himself. Kes watched him. She thought of Hiroto, how she would have loved to bash his face in so bad he pissed himself.

Woah. Getting a little too real. With a shaky hand, Kes pulled out a blunt, leaning forward and plucking an ornately engraved silver lighter from the man's suit pocket, flicking it open and lighting the end of her joint. “Hey,” She inhaled. Held it for a long time, as long as she was able, then breathed out, “I'll keep this, okay?” She offered, holding it up.

“Wotever ye want,” Splatter was sobbing now, a real mess. She snickered, taking another inhale in.

She held it a shorter amount of time, then let it out.

“So, the rings, man. I kinda fuckin' need those. They're super valuable and shit. And apparently really important?” She tilted her head to one side, feeling better already, “So, where are they at?”

Slowly, Splatter reached into his pants pocket, holding out five signet rings in a shaky hand. “H-Here, these're them, Bruiser.”

“Awesome. Thanks, man,” Kes looked at the bloodied cane, snatching up the rings with her free hand, “I'm gonna keep this, too. I always wanted a nice pimp-daddy cane.”

“A-Aye, keep it.” Jack whimpered, “Wotever ye want, jest lemme live.”

She laughed. “Man, why would I kill you? Seriously. I got better things to do than beat a murder rap.” She looked out of the corner of her eye as she took in another inhale, “He's different, though,” She said, whilest holding her breath, “You got this, Jake?” She asked.

“I think I can handle one crippled, miserable, sniveling bully, yes.” The hooded man looked toward her, where she limped and leaned to make the pain as small as possible, “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm good. Happens all the time.” She moved her blunt before she spit the blood, “I have some nobles to return and some money to get. Catch you on the flipside.” She staggered toward the front of the pub.

Kes didn't remember falling. She remembered waking up, her joint hissing to uselessness in a puddle as Jacob stood over her, his eyes wide. “Kes? Kes!”

“Easy, easy...I'm good...” She winced, “Did the girls get home…?”

“With their rings, yes, thanks to you. Freddie's utterly beside himself that you let yourself get this out of sorts. But, luckily, you held it together at least long enough to get almost to King's Cross.” He gave a funny little half-smile. “Miss Cunningham-nee-Jameson thanks you heartily.”

“Awesome. Tell her I said you're welcome the next time you two meet up.” Kes winced, “Fuck, he actually hurt me. I'm kinda impressed.” She looked up at Jacob, “Can you give me a hand up?”

He raised an eyebrow, “You cracked your ribs in that fight. And part of your face. I'll carry you onto the train myself. And get a doctor.”

Kes' eyes widened, “No, nope, no, I'm good. I'm good.”

“You fuckin' passed out, Kes, you're clearly not 'good'.”

“Lost my balance.” But, all at once, he had one arm under her shoulders and one under her knees and lifted. “Oh fuck- oh fuck, no no no, please put me down...”

“You're fine, you big baby,” He chuckled, looking down at her, “You barely weigh more than a kitten. Now, this is going to hurt a little.” He looked toward the track, toward the red line coming toward them, “I have to jump.”

“Jacob Friggin' Frye, I swear to God, if you drop me-”

“Here we go,” He said playfully, holding her close. He smelled like cologne, sweat, and a little bit like a hay barn. She rested her cheek against his chest, hearing his heartbeat and smelling the blood and grime on his hands. Her hands gripped his shirt, and maybe a little bit of his pectoral muscle as he ran, jumped.

For a minute, it was like they were flying. For a split second, Kes could hear a few bars of that R. Kelly song in her ear. She tried not to scream when they landed, the jolt running right through her ribs and all the way up to her shoulders. Jacob pushed open one of the doors with his shoulder, laying her back on the couch. “You all right?” He asked, leaning over her.

He had...the prettiest hazel eyes she had ever seen. And they were on her, totally focused on her, following her gaze when it drifted down to his mouth. She could probably give that mouth a nice big kiss right now, and it would feel and taste better than Jamaican of all things. He was really close to her, and she could almost feel him looming, that close.

“Kes?” He finally asked, raising an eyebrow, “Are you all right?” He inquired again, his hand moving up to rest on her neck, “Hey,” His voice dropped to a whisper, “You're not gonna faint again on me, are you?” The inside blade of his hand rested on her jaw, thumb next to the edge of her mouth. Her eyes drifted down the line of his neck, watching that little coin necklace slip out of his open shirt...which was actually opened a little more than it should be...

Wow. She really was in a lot of fucking pain right now. Between that and the kush she was definitely thinking way too hard about how pretty this man was. And how much she really wanted to ignore her busted up ribs and face and just jump him.

“Kes?”

Her eyes jerked back up to his, “Huh? No, I'm good. I'm good. Better than good. I'm great. I could take you down right here, right now, buddy.” She gave a weak grin, “Could...probably use my side looked at, though. I got a fight in about a week. Boss-Man gets mad if I don't deliver.”

“I'll bet he does,” Jacob smirked at her, before standing up, “I'll get you a doctor, then. And in a week, we'll make sure you're all patched up for your fight...and see about getting that shipment down from India, eh?”

“What are you, Canadian?” Kes joked, “Fine, whatever you want. Just...hand me a joint on your way out?”

He sighed, pulling one out of his pocket, “What would you do without me?” He chuckled, holding it out to her. She took it, slid it between her lips and lit up.

“Crash and burn, most likely.”


End file.
